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LONGBOURN by Jo Baker: the Servants' Story. Review by Penny Dolan.

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I overlooked LONGBOURN, the novel by Jo Baker, when it was published in 2013. 

However, Joan Lennon’s recent History Girls video-post, where the adept presenter needed help with dressing herself in her Regency Lady garments, brought out all my usual niggles. 
Who did the work involved in the delicate and many-buttoned dresses? Who looked after all the laundry and the house and the meals? Who ran the Bennet household for them? 
 Those questions, and a fragment of conversation, reminded me about  LONGBOURN, the novel, once more so I found a copy just in time to read it as part of the History Girls celebration of the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen’s death,and to offer some of my reflections


LONGBOURN runs alongside the plot of Pride and Prejudice, but Baker is telling the stories of the servants at Longbourn House: housemaid Sarah, housekeeper Mrs Hill, Mr Hill and eleven year old Polly,or as Austen describes them:
"the butler . . Mrs Hill and the two housemaids"
The novel does not focuses on Elizabeth and Darcy, but on Sarah's developing relationship with the mysterious new stable-hand, James Smith.

The book constantly reminds us of the impact of the weather on those lives and times. We first meet sixteen year old Sarah early on a January morning, bringing water in from the outside pump, ready to start on the laundry. Later, as Lydia sips her sugared milk and complains to Miss Hill in the kitchen: 

 Next door, down the step to the scullery, Sarah leaned over the washboard, rubbing at a stained hem. The petticoat had been three inches deep in mud when she’d retrieved it from the girls’ bedroom floor and had had a night’s soaking in lye already: the soap was not shifting the mark but it was biting into her hands, already chapped and chillblained and making them sting.

Sarah’s rough hands seemed to me to be an almost constant symbol within the novel, making those petticoats seem less carefree garments, and highlighting the fact that the Bennett girls are happy to drop a newly-pressed silk dress on the floor, and to believe that their dainty stitchery and silk-thread embroidery is “work”. 

Meanwhile, the real work goes on, inside and out and when James appears and takes on some of the heavy work, his strength and thoughtfulness is welcomed. The first hint of his good nature is when Sarah wakes and find water in the boiler and the fire lit.

All the way through, the Longbourn servants – housemaid Sarah, housekeeper Mrs Hill, Mr Hill the butler and eleven year old Polly - have little choice but to accept orders. Even so, they seem to be tolerant and proud of “their” family: Mrs Hill talks fondly of the girls “innocence”, while making sure that Sarah remembers that a servant life must be different.

The book also shows that Longbourn is also home for the servants. Sarah and young Polly, both brought there as destitute children, have been trained by Mrs Hill and Longbourn is their only security. We see Longbourn as a usually-kindly household, where the servants know there will be food and shelter, and a sense of the beauty and quiet in their isolated Hertfordshire location.

 Sarah, however, is at an age when her own eyes are opening to aspects of society beyond Longbourn’s fields. She starts to fret about the limitations of her situation and the extreme reticence of James. Sent into town, Sarah is as excited as the Bennet girls when the red-coated Militia arrive in town. However, unlike those young ladies, she witnesses the brutal flogging of a young “deserter” at the the street barracks, a moment that suggests something about James’ behaviour to the reader but not to Sarah. 

After Darcy and Bingley's arrival at Netherfield, Sarah becomes fascinated by Ptolemy, Bingley's elegant, well-mannered black servant and the distinct attention he shows her. Brought over from the family’s sugar plantation, Ptolemy has learned to use his looks to advance his position, but shocks Sarah with his real attitudes on the night of the ball.

Later on, after coming across the rigid hierarchy of servants in a grand house and meeting Ptolemy again, she looks again at her life back at Longbourn.

LONGBOURN has several memorable scenes, apart from the laundry as we step into the setting. One is the coach journey from rural Hertfordshire into to a dirty, disreputable London and on to : the reader does not sit inside the carriage but outside with Sarah, strapped to a kind of shelf and braving the weather – and also likely to be toppled on her neck if the carriage overturns. Another vivid account comes in a later part when, suddenly stepping outside the book’s setting, Baker describes James Smith’s horrific experiences during the flawed Spanish campaign against Napoleon, a flashback that explains much of his story and character. The difference between the power of the commissioned officer and that of the ordinary soldier is brutally demonstrated, both in the field and during the flogging in Meriton.

At times, I was half-amused by my reactions to the novel. For example, I felt a sense of imposition when Sarah is sent out into a torrent to buy last-minute “slipper roses” for the girls to wear at a ball. At another moment, I was recoiling: Mr Hill the butler regularly spits on the silver forks to polish them for the table. Later on, an account of Mrs Bennet’s early married life, her many pregnancies, and another significant matter, offered a different understanding of Mr and Mrs Bennett and their unhappy relationship.

One theme that comes through strongly in LONGBOURN is the precariousness of people’s social situation at that time, and at all levels. 

When Mr Collins visits his inheritance, the Longbourn servants know their own future employment will depends on him noticing them favourably, and when Elizabeth’s refuses him, we see this action could damage them as well as the Bennett family. As Baker reveals an age when inheritance and preferment mattered so much, her drawing of Mr Collins is much more sympathetic, certainly than some tv adaptations. 

On the other hand, seen from the servants' knowledge, Wickham is shown as a far worse character: predatory, full of cruelty and vice. One fears for fifteen-year-old Lydia, and sees her concept - and ours - of a romantic world undercut by a dreadful reality.

Although the story eventually circles away from Longbourn into other territory, it ends with a bold search, an eventual reunion, and hints at the changes coming towards the rural rolling landscape of England. 

 I did not hear much of an Austen voice - unless you recognise the quote below - that is there to be admired in PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, but I felt that LONGBOURN was well worth reading for the glimpse the novel gave into eighteenth century society and as an antidote to Regency romance. 

"There is nothing like the imminence of a parting to make people unduly fond of other people."


Penny Dolan


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Jane Austen: 200th Anniversary - Celia Rees

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Portrait of Austen (c. 1810) by her sister,  Cassandra

July has been Jane month on the History Girls and today we are marking the 200th anniversary of her death by posting some of our thoughts and observations, favourite books and film adaptations, characters and quotations. 

It is only right and fitting to begin with our leader and founder, Mary Hoffman:

Favourite novel: Persuasion

Favourite character(s): Mr Knightley and Henry Tilney

Favourite scene(s): Elizabeth Bennet’s rejection of Mr Collins’ proposal and his blithe inability to accept it; Same character’s blissful put-down of Lady Catherine.

Favourite dialogue: “ You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”

“Brother and sister! no, indeed.” 

(Emma and Mr Knightley) 

Caroline Lawrence's favourite screen Jane Austen 'Joe Wright's Pride and Prejudice, the one with Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen? It was my top film of 2005!'

Pride and Prejudice  
Karen Maitland recommends: 

'...a brilliant new nonfiction book out called The Secret Sisterhood by Emily Midorikawa and Emma Claire Sweeney, exploring the hidden literary friendships between female authors. The first chapter is about the influential friendship between Jane Austen and the playwright, Anne Sharp, all mention of which was excluded from the first biography authorised by the family. As Jane Austin writes in Northanger Abbey - "The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference."


Not all History Girls are Janeites. Elizabeth Chadwick confides:

'I shall always remember the utter relief of the class vote not to read Mansfied Park for 'O' level. We were sent away over the summer holidays to read Austen's novel and Brighton Rock by Graham Greene and decide which of the two we wanted to study. In September, there was a unanimous show of hands for Graham Greene - and especial sighs of relief at the result from the boys in the class. People have told me that Mansfield Park is not the best Austen novel for a beginner, but I have tried others and have yet to get beyond the first couple of chapters. However, I have enjoyed the Austen effect and its inspiration in other ways...'

Elizabeth will explain more in her own post on the 24th. 

As Elizabeth reminds us, likes and dislikes regarding literature often go back to school days - when Catherine Hokin was more a Hardy girl than a Janeite. 

'When I was at school the world was very tribal: Donny Osmond or David Cassidy (the latter, of course); Manchester Utd or Liverpool (the latter of course) and, as the joys of A level English bit, Jane Austen or Thomas Hardy - you've guessed it. I was always a Hardy girl, far preferring his tortured heroines and wild landscapes to heaving bosoms in the parlour. And then I got a little older and did a bit of acting including the hilarious Emma by Doon Mackichan, which involved a fabulous frock (although not enough bosom), pretending to be an 8 year old and singing the Marseillaise very loudly (try and see it). I laughed at Clueless and couldn't avoid Colin and the lake and the pages beckoned again. I'll be honest, I'm still not the greatest fan although I do have a soft spot for Northanger Abbey and I could watch Alan Rickman in Sense and Sensibility on a permanent loop. I'm deeply irritated by Elizabeth Bennet, bored rigid by Darcy and nothing about Mansfield Park has improved since school. But, something about Miss Austen drags you back and I'm a better reader for reading her. And Pride and Prejudice gave us Bride and Prejudice - watch that on a cold rainy day with a bucket of chocolate and you'll be the biggest Austen fan in the world.'


Leslie Wilson's favourite quote is Mr Collins "resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose some of its value in our estimation."'We're meant to laugh at him, but I think Austen means us to realise we usually proceed on that basis ourselves...'

Her favourite book: Emma

Favourite adaptation hero: Mr Knightley played by Jeremy Northam. 

Favourite character: Miss Bates.

I'm with Leslie. Emma is my favourite, too. Like Elizabeth and Catherine, I was not massively keen on Jane Austen when I was at school. I went to the kind of school where we were made to read the Classics from the First Year on. I remember reading Northanger Abbey and hating it. It wasn't until I was in the Sixth Form and fostering literary pretensions that I picked up Jane Austen again. I started to read Emma and by the end of the first paragraph, I was a convert. 

"Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her." With the added caveat a few lines later that "The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself..."

The whole novel is right there.




I can't leave Emma without mentioning the fabulous 1995 movie, Clueless. A clever, witty adaptation set in 1990s L.A. full of memorable quotations and one liners and surprisingly true to the book. Kardashians with irony? As if!

As writers, we are all aware of the importance and power of that first sentence, that first paragraph. Jane Austen is the past mistress of the consummate opening. She is a novelists' novelist, a superb technician and we still have much to learn from her. 

Carolyn Hughes offers 'three snippets from a book by my friend, mentor and novelist Rebecca Smith, five-times great niece of Jane Austen and former writer-in-residence at Jane Austen’s House Museum, Chawton. The book is The Jane Austen Writers’ Club (Bloomsbury 2016), a guide for writers in which we discover Jane’s “methods, tips and tricks, from techniques of plotting and characterisation through to dialogue and suspense”.

The extracts, from the chapter ‘Plan of a novel’, draw on letters Jane wrote to her niece, Anna, critiquing her draft novels, and to her sister, Cassandra. As I myself am now in “edit mode” with my current novel, I thought these pieces of advice most pertinent!

Don’t clutter your work with unnecessary detail; cut and edit

[From letter to Anna 9th September 1814]: ‘You describe a sweet place, but your descriptions are often more minute than will be liked. You give too many particulars of right hand & left.’

Beware of overwriting and clichés

… ‘Devereux Forester’s [one of Anna’s characters] being ruined by his vanity is extremely good, but I wish you would not let him plunge into a “vortex of dissipation”. I do not object to the thing, but I cannot bear the expression; it is such thorough novel slang, and so old that I daresay Adam met with it in the first novel he opened.’ [Letter to Anna 28th September 1814]

Edit meticulously

Jane noticed [infelicities and repetitions] in whatever she was reading, joking to Cassandra…in spring 1811, ‘It gives me sincere pleasure to hear of Mrs Knight’s having a tolerable night at last, but upon this occasion I wish she had another name, for the two nights jingle very much.’


I'm off to order my copy right now!

Alison Morton reminds us that Jane Austen is one of those writers who can be read and re-read and whose books resonates differently throughout a lifetime. 

'Jane Austen was one of the first writers to capture me entirely. She made me laugh, think and learn at the same time. And reading Pride and Prejudice at 14, 34 and 54 is an entirely different experience. The first time, as a teenager you love the heroine’s story as she makes her painful way to her ‘happy ever after”, as a young married woman in your thirties, slightly wiser about the world, you find yourself nodding, tutting and able to see viewpoint of each character – a much rounder and more satisfying read. At 54 you rediscover this clever, glorious and hilarious book and devour it.

I took my son, then aged 18, to see the film with Keira Knightly (I know, but he had a crush on her!). It was a Wednesday afternoon. I forbade sweets with crackly wrappers – this was Tunbridge Wells and the audience would be packed with older people who were keen Janeites. He scoffed; the cinema would have a dozen people, maximum twenty. Well, we squeezed into practically the last two seats. He surveyed the sea of grey heads and whispered into the silence, “I must be the youngest person here.”

We watched. The photography was splendid, the adaptation pleasant, and Judi Dench suitably terrifying. I ignored the omissions and continuity gaffes. As we filed out, there was genteel chattering. In the foyer, my son, educated at one of the leading boys’ grammar school in the country, turned to me and said. “Really good. But I think I was the only person in there who didn’t know the ending.”'

I leave the last word to History Girl Àdele Geras. 

'Jane Austen's novels have been part of my life since before I was in my teens. She's my favourite novelist and the fact that she wrote so few novels means it's quite easy to read all of them. There's a famous joke told about Harold McMillan, who, when he was once asked if he read novels, answered: "Oh yes, all six, every year!"

My late husband, (Norm Geras, who died in 2013) had read EMMA for his A-levels and liked it very much. He was a slow reader and most of his life as an academic was taken up with reading other things than novels. He was also not fond of travelling but in 2007, I persuaded him to come to Florence on holiday. He took two books: the one he was reading (TRUE GRIT) which he'd almost finished, and PRIDE AND PREJUDICE on the grounds that it was short. He was also aware that it consistently topped the list of most beloved novel in the language.

Have you ever watched someone fall in love? That was what happened. He was just....knocked out. He took to carrying the book around with him all the time and you could see him mentally stroking it and looking at it and just....LOVING it. Being the sort of man he was, once he'd finished that book, he went on to all the others, in order. Then he read the criticism and the lives. Then he read the letters. He became the most ardent Janeite at the age of 64. 

He wrote about her on his blog, normblog, very often. HERE is an account of an event we went to in Ely which speaks for itself. WotN is me. Wife of the Norm. 

I still love Jane Austen best of all but now she has the additional merit of reminding me so much of Norm.'

Gibbon's Decline and Fall – Reading for the age of Austen? by Alison Morton

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Edward Gibbon by Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723–1792)
In his Companion to the Roman Empire (2006), David S Potter called Edward Gibbon the 'first historian of the Roman Empire'. In The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire charting AD 98 to 1590, Gibbon was certainly the first in the modern era to use primary sources, cite those sources in detail and comment objectively, even if not politically correctly for the 21st century reader. His style is slightly ironic, certainly detached and lapses occasionally into moralising. The notes accompanying the text are almost chatty and often comment on both ancient Rome and 18th century Britain.
After a war of about forty years, undertaken by the most stupid,7 maintained by the most dissolute, and terminated by the most timid of all the emperors, the far greater part of the island submitted to the Roman yoke.
The various tribes of Britain possessed valour without conduct, and the love of freedom without the spirit of union. They took up arms with savage fierceness; they laid them down, or turned them against each other, with wild inconsistency; and while they fought singly, they were successively subdued. Neither the fortitude of Caractacus, nor the despair of Boadicea, nor the fanaticism of the Druids, could avert the slavery of their country, or resist the steady progress of the Imperial generals, who maintained the national glory, when the throne was disgraced by the weakest, or the most vicious of mankind.
 7 --Claudius, Nero, and Domitian. A hope is expressed by Pomponius Mela, l. iii. c. 6, (he wrote under Claudius,) that, by the success of the Roman arms, the island and its savage inhabitants would soon be better known. It is amusing enough to peruse such passages in the midst of London.*

When assessing the character of any subject, Gibbon is at pains to give a balanced view, unlike the authors of previous partisan or quasi-mythical stories, so enabling the reader to feel confident of his methodology and his account.
A more accurate view of the character and conduct of Julian will remove this favourable prepossession for a prince who did not escape the general contagion of the times. We enjoy the singular advantage of comparing the pictures which have been delineated by his fondest admirers and his implacable enemies. The actions of Julian are faithfully related by a judicious and candid historian, the impartial spectator of his life and death. The unanimous evidence of his contemporaries is confirmed by the public and private declarations of the emperor himself; and his various writings express the uniform tenor of his religious sentiments, which policy would have prompted him to dissemble rather than to affect.*

Gibbon wrote his account between 1776 and 1789, significant dates in a period of political turmoil.  Living amidst rebellion against mother country, economic failure, overthrow of monarchy and war across the Channel must have been, to say the least, stressful for informed Enlightenment gentlemen of letters. To what extent these events influenced Gibbon’s History is hard to say, but all writers are the product of their age. In a letter to Lord Sheffield on 5 February 1791, Gibbon, then living in Switzerland, praised Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France:
Burke's book is a most admirable medicine against the French disease, which has made too much progress even in this happy country. I admire his eloquence, I approve his politics, I adore his chivalry, and I can even forgive his superstition...

By the time Volumes IV, V and VI were published Gibbon was being praised by contemporaries as William Robertson, Adam Ferguson, Lord Camden, Horace Walpole and Adam Smith who said, that Gibbon's triumph had positioned him "at the very head of [Europe's] literary tribe.". In November, he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society.

How does this connect us to Jane Austen whose anniversary we are celebrating this month? She lived from 1775 to 1817, so was a baby when Gibbon published the first volume.  Even when he had finished the last she would only have been 14. After periods away at school, Jane stayed in her family circle from 1786 onwards. The remainder of her education came from reading, guided by her father and brothers, James and Henry.

Gibbon’s History was groundbreaking and an acclaimed bestseller at the time and I suggest that Reverend George Austen and his friend Warren Hastings were very likely to have had copies in their libraries. I rather like the idea of Jane Austen turning the pages of a first edition of the first modern history book.

Although not mentioned as I remember, I’m sure Mr Bennet would have had a copy in his library as would Mr Darcy; both would have read it. Mr Bingley probably not, but being fashionable he would have had a copy in the library at Netherfield. Perhaps Mr Woodhouse had one and perhaps he read it in between head colds; I’m not entirely sure. Emma’s Mr Knightly, Elinor’s Edward Ferrars and Colonel Brandon most certainly would have a copy and read it. Of the ladies, I wonder. Much of their time was consumed in the daily business of living, paying social calls and attempting to secure their future with a good marriage.

Gibbon’s History is known for its status as a first history book and for its sweeping content across fourteen centuries. He follows the fate of both Western and Eastern (Byzantine) Roman Empires. Any aspiring Roman fiction writer should read it for detail and inspiration; the history student for a study of basic methodology and use of sources.  But given the number of reprints, new editions with scholarly prefaces and introductions, the History seems to be as popular for the general informed reader as it would have been in Jane Austen’s day.

*Gibbon, Edward. History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ed. Hans-Friedrich Mueller Plantagenet Publishing. Kindle Edition.

The fascination of British History Online

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Browsing the British History Online (BHO) website can while away many a happy hour in a fascinating, sometimes surprising, experience. If you don’t know of it, BHO is a digital library of key printed primary and secondary sources for the history of Britain and Ireland, with a primary focus on the period between 1300 and 1800.

The website offers an astonishing number of documents. To pick at random from the catalogue index, just to show the sort of documents available…

EXAMPLE 1: Feet of Fines, Sussex Feet of fines are court copies of agreements following disputes over property. In reality, the disputes were mostly fictitious and were simply a way of having the transfer of ownership of land recorded officially by the king’s court. The records in this series relate to the county of Sussex for the period 1190-1509. I’d need to brush up on my Latin to make sense of the Edward I volumes, although those for Edward III are in English…

‘Sussex Fines: 21-25 Edward I (nos. 1072-1118)’, 
in An Abstract of Feet of Fines For the County of Sussex: Vol. 2, 1249-1307
(full reference below)










‘Sussex Fines: 11-15 Edward III’,
in An Abstract of Feet of Fines For the County of Sussex: Vol. 3, 1308-1509
(full reference below)











EXAMPLE 2: Calendar of Close Rolls - Edward III (14 volumes)

The Close Rolls record ‘letters close’, that is, letters sealed and folded because they were of a personal nature, issued by the Chancery in the name of a particular king or queen. They usually contained orders or instructions. These calendars provide summaries full enough, for most purposes, to replace the original documents. However, these particular documents are designated on the BHO as “premium content” and require a subscription to access that I don’t have.

EXAMPLE 3: The Medieval Records of A London City Church St Mary At Hill, 1420-1559
Edited by Henry Littlehales, these records were first published by the Early English Text Society in 1905. They are churchwardens’ accounts for the St Mary At Hill parish. The records are at their fullest for the period from 1480 onwards. The volume also has an extensive introduction, detailing the history and liturgical practice of the church, and the impact of the Reformation. Looking at this page, you’d clearly need to understand the notation used for the accounts, but it’s fascinating stuff!
The Medieval Records of A London City Church 
St Mary At Hill, 1420-1559 (full reference below)





















Anyway, what I am actually reading right now on British History Online is the Victoria County History for Hampshire. The Victoria County History was begun in 1899 and dedicated to Queen Victoria. Organised by county, it provides a vast and detailed record of England’s places and people over many centuries. It has been described as the greatest publishing project in English local history, and it certainly does provide a wealth of fascinating information.

From BHO, ‘The hundred of Meonstoke: Introduction’, Paragraph p2
What I was specifically browsing in the Victoria County History were the pages for the Hundred of Meonstoke in the Meon Valley. A “hundred” was a division of the shire. Hundred boundaries were independent of both parish and county boundaries, though they were often aligned, so a hundred could be split between counties, or a parish could be split between hundreds. The Meonstoke Hundred contained a number of parishes and some tithings that were part of other parishes.

The setting for my Meonbridge Chronicles is not actually Meonstoke, but I have a sense that “Meonbridge” lies broadly in the area occupied by Meonstoke and its neighbouring villages, so it is interesting to read what the History can tell me about about these villages and their development over time. My recent browsing led me to think that I’d like to share a little of what I’ve read. And various things have drawn my interest…

For example, the way the structure of the hundred changed over time. At Domesday, Meonstoke consisted of ten parishes, and a tithing from another parish/hundred but, by 1316, it was down to four parishes – Meonstoke, Soberton, Warnford, and Corhampton – plus three tithings from three other and different hundreds (‘The hundred of Meonstoke: Introduction’, Paragraph p3).

Then there is the way that the names of places changed over time, or perhaps were simply recorded with different spellings. So, for example, Meonstoke was Menestoche in the 11th century, Mienestoch or Mionstoke in the 12th; Manestoke or Menestoke in the 13th; Munestoke, Munestokes, Maonestoke or Moenestoke in the 14th (‘Parishes: Meonstoke’, Paragraph p1).

But perhaps what really drew my attention about Meonstoke were the names of some of the owners of its manors – including both illustrious and notorious individuals – which give Meonstoke a seemingly glittering past that sits somewhat strangely with the rather peaceful, out-of-the-way, “backwater” it might appear to be…

The “glitter” perhaps derives from the fact that Meonstoke was always part of the king’s demesne. It formed part of the lands of King Edward the Confessor, and, at the time of the Domesday Survey, being part of the crown’s demesne, it was not assessed. But, in the reign of Henry III, it was divided into three portions and, from then until the 14th century, there were three manors of Meonstoke – Meonstoke Tour, Meonstoke Ferrand and Meonstoke Waleraund (later Meonstoke Perrers), each with a distinct history (‘Parishes: Meonstoke’, Paragraph p4).

Effigy of William Edington in Winchester Cathedral. 
(full reference below)
Meonstoke Tour was land granted by Henry III to one Geoffrey Peverel but, in 1240, it was back again in the hands of the king, who then granted it to his serjeant Henry de la Tour. The manor remained in the hands of the de la Tour family from then until 1353, when it was sold to no less a personage than William de Edendon (or Edington or Edyngton), the Bishop of Winchester. In 1366, the then king, Edward III, wanting to reward William for his long service, tried to appoint him Archbishop of Canterbury, but William was already in failing health and he declined the honour. He died in the October in nearby Bishop’s Waltham, and is buried in Winchester Cathedral. The new bishop was William of Wykeham (a Meon Valley man, born in Wickham, and one of the area’s most illustrious sons), who bought the manor from de Edendon’s executors and merged it and the other two manors back into a single “Meonstoke” manor (‘Parishes: Meonstoke’, Paragraph p7).

William of Wykeham (1320-1404)
(full reference below)
Meonstoke Ferrand’s land was granted by Henry III to his Gascon crossbowman Ferrand in about 1233. A Ferrand then held the land until 1305, when it was sold to John de Drokensford, who was bishop of Bath and Wells. For the next fifty years, Drokensfords held the manor, until it seems to have been sold as part of a larger transfer of messuages (dwellings with their adjacent buildings and lands), other land and mills by one Maurice le Bruyn. The buyer we have met already – William de Edendon, the bishop of Winchester. After his death, Meonstoke Ferrand was also bought by his successor, William of Wykeham, who merged it with the other manors (‘Parishes: Meonstoke’ Paragraph p6).

And so we come to Meonstoke Waleraund, or Meonstoke Perrers, as it later became. And this is the story in the BHO that particularly intrigued me because of its second name… It is first mentioned as a separate manor in 1224, and was held briefly by a de Percy but, in 1229, Henry III granted it to one Fulk de Montgomery. But, two years later, Fulk sold it to Sir John Maunsell, who obtained a grant of a weekly Monday market in Meonstoke and a yearly fair on the “vigil, feast, and morrow” of St. Margaret, and, two years later, also a grant of free warren (permission from the king to kill certain game within a stipulated area) in all his lands in Hampshire. Sir John was a favourite of the young King Henry III and is thought to have obtained vast numbers of benefices all over the country, perhaps more than any other clergyman, including the provost of Beverley, in 1247, the livings of Howden, Bawburgh and Haughley, the prebendaries of South Malling, Tottenhall, Chinchester [sic – I assume Chichester], the dean of Wimborne, the rector of Wigan, and the chancellorship of St. Paul’s, London, as well as papal chaplain and chaplain of the King (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Maunsell). He also served as the Lord Chancellor of England. A powerful man indeed!


Statue of Simon de Montfort on the
Haymarket Memorial Clock Tower in Leicester

(full reference below)
But when Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, grew in power, King Henry was forced, apparently against his will, to deprive Sir John of his possessions, granting them to Simon in 1263. Although, another story says that it was after the battle of Lewes in May 1264, when de Montfort defeated Henry and took power, that he deprived Sir John of all his lands. Whether the “deprival’ included Meonstoke I am not clear, but perhaps it was at one time owned by the notorious de Montfort.

However, after the battle of Evesham in 1265, when de Montfort himself was defeated, Sir John was already dead, and Meonstoke passed to another de Percy. But, only three years later, he sold it to Robert Waleraund, and the manor remained in the hands of Waleraunds or their descendants until perhaps 1370 or thereabouts, when the manor escheated (was returned) to the king, Edward III. And he then granted it to trustees for the use of his mistress, the famous, or infamous, Alice Perrers, at which point the manor came to be called Meonstoke Perrers.


An imagining of Alice Perrers and Edward III
by Ford Madox Brown in 1868
(full reference below)
Whether or not Alice ever visited her new manor of Meonstoke Perrers I have no idea, as I believe she had many manors to choose from to rest her head, but it is nice to imagine that she might have spent a night or two at least in the lazy backwaters of the Meon Valley…

However, in 1376, the “Good” Parliament banished Alice and deprived her of her possessions, although in the following year, the “Bad” Parliament reversed the decree and she regained them. But then, in the first Parliament of Richard II, the sentence against her was reconfirmed, and Meonstoke escheated once more to the crown. The manor was put into the hands of stewards until 1379, when the sentence against Alice was yet again revoked, and the manor was granted to her husband, William de Windsor. But, only months later, he sold it to our friend William of Wykeham, bishop of Winchester (and also chancellor to both Edward III and Richard II), who merged it with the two other Meonstoke manors and eventually granted it to his foundation, Winchester College (‘Parishes: Meonstoke’ Paragraph p5).


This must have been the lot of hundreds of manors throughout the country – this toing and froing between owners as their status soared and dived at the whim of those in power. One wonders what the tenants thought of it all? Probably nothing. It was no concern of theirs. They undoubtedly just kept their heads down and got on with their work. I suppose, in many cases, tenants scarcely knew their “lord”, if he or she was of the absentee type, as I am sure all of those I have mentioned here must have been. As far as tenants were concerned, their masters were the reeve and steward or bailiff, and their own lives were lived with no connection to the, possibly illustrious, person who actually benefited from the results of their labours.



REFERENCES
A History of the County of Hampshire: Volume 3: Edited by William Page. Covers eastern Hampshire, including Portsmouth, Southampton, Petersfield and Havant. Originally published by Victoria County History, London, 1908. Ref.: A History of the County of Hampshire: Volume 3, ed. William Page (London, 1908), British History Onlinehttp://www.british-history.ac.uk/vch/hants/vol3 [accessed 11 July 2017].

‘The hundred of Meonstoke: Introduction’, in A History of the County of Hampshire: Volume 3, ed. William Page (London, 1908), pp. 245-246. British History Onlinehttp://www.british-history.ac.uk/vch/hants/vol3/pp245-246 [accessed 11 July 2017].

‘Parishes: Meonstoke’, in A History of the County of Hampshire: Volume 3, ed. William Page (London, 1908), pp. 254-257. British History Onlinehttp://www.british-history.ac.uk/vch/hants/vol3/pp254-257 [accessed 11 July 2017].


PICTURE REFERENCES
‘Sussex Fines: 21-25 Edward I (nos. 1072-1118)’, in An Abstract of Feet of Fines For the County of Sussex: Vol. 2, 1249-1307, ed. L F Salzmann (Lewes, 1908), pp. 159-169. British History Onlinehttp://www.british-history.ac.uk/feet-of-fines-sussex/vol2/pp159-169 [accessed 11 July 2017].

‘Sussex Fines: 11-15 Edward III’, in An Abstract of Feet of Fines For the County of Sussex: Vol. 3, 1308-1509, ed. L F Salzmann (Lewes, 1916), pp. 88-102. British History Onlinehttp://www.british-history.ac.uk/feet-of-fines-sussex/vol3/pp88-102 [accessed 11 July 2017].

The Medieval Records of A London City Church St Mary At Hill, 1420-1559, ed. Henry Littlehales (London, 1905), British History Onlinehttp://www.british-history.ac.uk/early-eng-text-soc/vol128 [accessed 11 July 2017].

Effigy of William Edington in Winchester Cathedral. By Ealdgyth [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons


William of Wykeham (1320-1404) Contemporary portrait [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Statue of Simon de Montfort on the Haymarket Memorial Clock Tower in Leicester (By NotFromUtrecht [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons]

Detail of Ford Madox Brown’s 1868 painting of Chaucer reading to the court of King Edward III, depicting Alice Perrers and Edward III (Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

Trieste and the Castello di Miramare by Imogen Robertson

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Trieste and us

So Ned and I went to Trieste in north-eastern Italy for a week in June, partly because of Jan Morris and partly because we were celebrating a bit of history of our own, our fifth wedding anniversary. For those of you who haven’t visited Trieste, I really recommend it. Set on a thin strip of coast between the Adriatic and Slovenia, it’s friendly, the food is great and there are castles, museums and narrow twisting streets a plenty, as well as grand 19th century squares and very few tourists. We had the Civico Museo di Storia ed Arte to ourselves, seeing the sort of superb Greek vases that normally mean shuffling slowly through the British Museum on a timed entry ticket, in rooms so empty the lights occasionally went off when we’d been staring at one thing too long. 

I also stared at this quite a lot too. 

At the back of the museum is a sculpture garden, or rather a rough meadow surrounded and punctured by remnants of city and castle walls in which a lot of sculpture has ended up. It is now one of of my favourite places in the world. 



I tend to be a bit snotty about mid-nineteenth century architecture. I’m one of those people who wander around complaining about the rather overly enthusiastic ‘restoration’ of some many English churches and cathedrals. That said, I beginning to learn the error of my ways and Castello di Miramare, five miles along the coast from Trieste was certainly a lesson I enjoyed learning. Building began in the 1850s on this bone white, modest fairy-tale castle on a promontory jutting forth into the bay and it was finished in 1864. The man who owned it and who was closely involved in its design was Ferdinand Maximilian, brother of Francis Joseph I, the Emperor of Austria. He was also deeply involved in the laying out and planting of the stunning gardens, a mix of exotic, forested and formal, which surround the castle and wash back up the slopes behind it. Inside the castle is somewhat eccentric. There is a throne room of course, But also an upstairs fountain, rooms full of portraits of princes and emperors contemporary with Maximilian, and his bedroom is designed to look exactly like a ship’s cabin. 


Poor Maximilian had an unhappy end. He was a successful naval commander, but before his castle was completely finished he was persuaded to become Emperor of Mexico. It happens. It wasn’t a long or happy rule and he was executed on 19 June 1867. I’d heard his story before, and Ned retold the version he knows from Terrifying True Tales of History, full of portents and paranoia with sepulchral glee as we wandered around, but I felt a great deal more sympathy for him having seen his home. The private rooms are tasteful, human sized and full of light and colour looking out across the Bay of Trieste. He also had an excellent library. 


By the way, I have a new website at www.imogenrobertson.com
Do let me know what you think.

Jane Austen and Walter Scott: Not Quite Love and Friendship by Catherine Hokin

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“Walter Scott has no business writing novels, especially good ones – it is not fair. He has fame and profit enough as a poet, and should not be taking the bread out of other people’s mouths.”


 Jane Austen from original family picture. Getty
Author feuds: we at the History Girls are above such things but they are horribly common. Gore Vidal comparing Norman Mailer to Charles Manson; Vidal retaliating by punching and then headbutting him.  HG Wells calling Henry James a 'painful hippopotamus' before engaging in a rather nasty letter-writing battle. Ernest Hemingway dismissing F.Scott FitzGerald as a sissy, a moaner and a drunk. No one comes out well and it's not just the men who know how to sharpen a quill: the above 'attack' on Walter Scott was penned by our own mistress of manners, Jane Austen.

Now I'll be honest here, I'm not the world's greatest Austen fan, my tastes run a bit more melodramatic (and sometimes my prose, my agent's term 'you've gone purple again' is never meant as a compliment) which is why I love Walter far more. No one can deny, however, how well Austen can mix admiration into rivalry or the elegant dryness of her tone. This archness runs through her letters as much as her novels although the above comment (written to her niece Anna in 1814) does continue in a rather blunter vein: "I do not like him, and do not mean to like Waverley if I can help it - but fear I must."It's hard not to hear the gritted teeth grinding just a little.

Walter Scott was, of course, a very different writer to Austen. His books are written on a far larger scale than hers and in a far more exuberant (also known as completely over-the-top) way but he was generous in his appreciation of Austen's style. His review of Emma, published in The Quarterly Review in 1816 is widely credited with bringing her work to a wider audience and may have been the impetus behind an early American printing. The review is not a raving endorsement but does include positive comments about Austen's other works (with one omission) and makes a distinction between Emma and what many felt was multiplicity of novels suddenly flooding the market, stating that it showed “a knowledge of the human heart, with the power and resolution to bring that knowledge to the service of honour and virtue,” unlike the “ephemeral productions which supply the regular demand of watering-places and circulating libraries.” Whether or not Austen appreciated the review (or even knew that Scott was its author) is unclear. As with much of her writing, her response that the authoress “has no reason, I think, to complain of her treatment in it, except in the total omission of ‘Mansfield Park.’ I cannot but be sorry that so clever a man as the Reviewer of ‘Emma’ should consider it as unworthy of being noticed” can be read in a positive or a peevish tone.

 No explanation or excuse needed
Scott continued to reflect positively on Austen's work throughout his own career. In 1826, he wrote in his private journal:“READ again, and for the third time at least, Miss Austen’s very finely written novel of Pride and Prejudice. That young lady has a talent for describing the involvements and feelings and characters of ordinary life which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with. The big bow-wow strain I can do myself like any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me.” (From an article by Stuart Kelly, whose book Scott-Land: The Man Who Invented a Nation is a wonderful read for anyone interested in Scott's life). In 1832, Scott wrote in the preface to the one novel he wrote with a more domestic setting, St Ronan's Well, that he had no “hope of rivaling … the brilliant and talented names of Edgeworth, Austen..whose success seems to have appropriated this province of the novel as exclusively their own."Was Austen as generous in return? I'm not enough of an Austen scholar to know but I think it would be fair to assume she was not. Although Scott could appreciate the genre she had made her own, she was definitely no fan of his. When James Stanier-Clarke, librarian to the Prince Regent, 'helpfully' suggested she might like to write a work of historical romance to celebrate the Prince, she was less than complimentary at the idea. "I am fully sensible that an Historical Romance, founded on the House of Saxe Cobourg might be much more to the purpose of Profit or Popularity, than such pictures of domestic Life in Country Villages as I deal in – but I could no more write a Romance than an Epic Poem. I could not sit seriously down to write a serious Romance under any other motive than to save my Life, & if it were indispensable for me to keep it up & never relax into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung before I had finished the first Chapter."Damned by faint praise indeed.

It is unfair of me to call the relationship between Scott and Austen a feud, it's really more of a niggle although I'm sure her clever tongue could hold its own in any author-celebrity death match. The one I would have liked to see? Austen versus Mark Twain. Twain loathed Austen's work, interestingly he also loathed Walter Scott, so much in fact that he once cited Walter Scott disease as a prime cause of the American Civil War: "Sir Walter had so large a hand in making Southern character, as it existed before the war, that he is in great measure responsible for the war."Reading Twain on Austen reminds me of the horrors of having to teach her to teenage boys: he expressed amazement that she had a natural death instead of being executed for literary crimes and followed that up by declaring he wanted to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone every time he attempted to read Pride and Prejudice. Exactly like teenage boys. I couldn't break them, I'm not convinced I didn't side with them at times, but I doubt the woman who could write "I always deserve the best treatment because I never put up with any other" would have been troubled by any of us. 

All for Love? Pride and Prejudice, Hermsprong, and rational attachment

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Jane Austen, by Cassandra Austen, uploaded by Winniwuk at German Wikimedia





'whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as what Jane felt for Bingley.'

Thus Elizabeth Bennet on her future husband, Darcy. A lot of people regard Jane Austen as romantic fiction nowadays (maybe because of that episode when Darcy appeared before Elizabeth in a wet shirt). But for all Darcy's 'fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien', Pride and Prejudice is absolutely not about a young woman succumbing to a fit of romantic, overpowering emotion, to say nothing of sexual attraction.

A couple of years ago, I came across a mention of Robert Bage's 'Hermsprong,' a book which Jane Austen had on her shelves. It's an interesting read for many reasons; one, the reiteration of the couplet 'pride and prejudice' on its pages, though for all I know the pairing of the words may well have been common at that time. It was published in 1796, a year before Austen completed the first draft of what was at that time called 'First Impressions.' And if it is a harder read than Pride and Prejudice, when you get into it, and past the rather laboured prologue, it's a fascinating one, particularly because of resonances with Pride and Prejudice.


One theme is the irrationality of revering persons just because of their high rank and how respect must be earned (Bage was known as a democrat, which wasn't a compliment in many circles. He had read Tom Paine and didn't concur in the dogma that the British form of government was the best possible, which in the days of repression following the French Revolution, was dangerous). Pride and Prejudice is not a radical text, but the folly of snobbery is important in the text, as it is in other Austen novels (think silly, feckless Sir Walter Eliot, brown-nosing his noble connections and condescending to those he thinks 'inferior' to himself'). However, what I want to talk about here is the issue of how anyone can achieve lasting happiness in marriage.

Clearly, the 'presenting theme' of Pride and Prejudice, announced in the first paragraph, is the importance of getting a husband (and an establishment) in the first place. Mrs Bennet knows this, and is hot on the scent of profitable husbands; not half as foolish as she's portrayed. Charlotte Lucas makes a cold-eyed choice of Mr Collins; marriage being: 'the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and, however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want.' Charlotte's solution to the stupidity of the man she must live with is to forget him as much as possible, and enjoy looking after her parish and her poultry, and, later on no doubt, her children. It's to be hoped they don't take after their father.

However, there was a common preoccupation at that era (and perhaps at any era) with the question of how long-term marital happiness is to be achieved. Eighteenth century people were well aware that 'being in love', assuming a marriage began like that, rather than as a commercial transaction, would not last. Arguing with the Falmouth banker, Sumelin (a man whose teasing of his wife strongly resembles Mr Bennet's teasing of Mrs Bennet, only Sumelin's teasing is less malicious, not to say malevolent) the eponymous hero of Hermsprong quotes Mary Wollstonecraft, saying that the influence of women should be 'diminished on the side of - charms - and let its future increase be on the side of mind.' The reason for this is that it is not common for husbands 'to preserve the ardour of lovers.' What to do when that first ardour has subsided is crucial, if the married couple is not to slide into the matrimonial nastiness that characterises the Bennets' relationship. Their daughter Elizabeth is well aware of this: 'Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort, Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour, which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind, had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem and confidence, had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown.'
Mary Wollstonecraft; engraving by James Heath


Writing in A Vindication of the Rights of Women, Mary Wollstonecraft observed: 'Youth is the season for love in both sexes; but in those days of thoughtless enjoyment provision should be made for the more important years of life, when reflection takes the place of sensation… This is, must be, the course of nature - friendship or indifference inevitably succeeds love.'

Hermsprong and his Caroline take long walks together and discover how much they have in common as well as falling in love. It has to be said that I much prefer Caroline's less virtuous bosom friend Maria Fluart, a fascinating, independent-minded woman who supports Caroline against her abusive father Lord Grondale and, when Grondale tries to keep her in his house against her will, whips out a pistol and levels it at him and his friends. Did Roald Dahl read Hermsprong, I wonder? Maria Fluart doesn't whip the pistol out of her knickers, as Dahl's Red Riding Hood does, because women didn't wear knickers in those days, but there is a marked similarity.

All the same, Hermsprong and Caroline are ideally suited to each other, and are likely to remain friends all their lives. This is the point of the novel.

Consider, therefore, Elizabeth's feelings about Darcy: ' She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man, who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was a union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved, and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance.' And this would be a marriage which 'could.. teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was.'

Compare this with the union of Lydia and Wickham 'a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue.' It is not, of course, impossible that Lydia and Wickham might after all become friends, but it is unlikely, and in fact Austen indicates that it doesn't happen.

Radical Austen is not, nor is she a feminist in the way Wollstonecraft is, and yet her novels recommend marriages which are based on the suitability for each other of the heroine and hero; not based on rent-rolls, or snobbery, or the desire to keep estates in the family - and not on a dizzying storm of sexual attraction either.



JANE AUSTEN YOUTUBE DELIGHTS FOR AN AUSTEN NON-FAN By Elizabeth Chadwick

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This month on the History Girls has a Jane Austen theme in celebration of the author's 200th anniversary.
I confess I am not a fan of Jane Austen's writing.  My first brush with her work came during the run up to 'O' levels when I was 15 and we were sent home over the school summer holiday with a brief to read Mansfield Park and Graham Greene's Brighton Rock and decide which of the two we would prefer to study for our exam.
When returned in September, the result was unanimous.  Brighton Rock won without a single vote of dissent. The boys in the class were especially relieved!
I don't recall much about Mansfield Park.  I think I probably started it and had wall-banged by the end of chapter 3.  But then I was only 15 and many people have told me it's not the best Austen on which to cut one's teeth.
I have tried to read Austen on several occasions throughout my adult life but whatever the novel, I have never got past the early chapters.  I have realised that it is her voice.  She might be a thoroughly witty, talented author with secret and complex things to say, but for me, her voice is like the incessant whine of a small mosquito or the high-pitched tweety, tweeting of a  little fluttery bird.  It irritates me beyond belief.  I accept that it's me and a personal taste thing.  My agent and editor are both horrified and stunned that I don't get Austen.  But I don't.  I'm not tuned in and that's just the way it is.

However, I have found enormous pleasure, nay hilarious joy,  in the way she has inspired the creativity of certain others.  I thought I'd share with you a couple of my Youtube Jane Austen procrastination favourites.  They make me laugh, they lift my mood, and they are such fun.

The first is a tour de force.  Whether or not it was inspired by various Austen mash-up novels I don't know, but I can watch Jane Austen Fight Club on a repeat loop.



Another favourite is Robert Webb's portrayal of Mr Darcy's dancing from the BBC 2 series That Mitchell and Webb look.  Another one that never fails to make me laugh.  The conversational tone is spot on Jane Austen!

Without Austen's original works, I would never have had the delight of these two wonderful spoofs!



Jane Austen by Miranda Miller

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    Apologies if I’m repeating some of what other bloggers have written this month but I find I have a lot I want to say about her. Cassandra’s naive drawing of her sister looks down at me as I write. For me, her novels are associated with a strange period when I was twelve. I was ill and lay, for weeks it seems, on my parents’ sofa reading Jane Austen’s novels. I was young enough to be pleased to be reading grown up books and far too young to appreciate the brilliant subtlety of her voice. Thirty years later, I watched my daughter discover her novels with the same delight. I never had the misfortune to ‘do’ Jane Austen at school and I think it’s the test of her greatness that she is one of the writers who has grown up with me. Now I read her with the same wonder I listen to Mozart; because she makes it look so easy.

    Although I’ve seen some good adaptations of her novels I never feel the characters look quite right - too modern? Too knowing? Too slouchy? I prefer the old illustrations here to stills from the films.

How I wish adult novels still had illustrations. Here is Mrs Ferrars from Sense and Sensibility.  The plots are not original and Walter Scott, in a review when Emma was first published, complained that it had “even less story” than Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice. Two hundred years later, most people find Scott unreadable ( pace, Catherine Hokim), while Jane Austen’s novels are universally loved. Her dialogue is brilliant and this does come over in the film and TV versions but I miss her wit and irony. To savour her ruthlessly lucid vision I think you have to go back to the books themselves. Emma has always been my favourite. When we first see Emma’s father, the hypochondriac Mr Woodhouse:

His spirits required support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of everybody that he was used to, and hating to depart from them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable;

   Emma’s thoughts are given to us in a way that is still remarkably fresh. For example, in Chapter 16:

The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miderable. - It was a wretched business, indeed! - such an overthrow of everything she had been wishing for! - Such a development of every thing most unwelcome! -Such a blow for Harriet! - that was the worst of all.


   Those dashes are like bolts of energy and, as John Mullan has pointed out, Jane Austen was a pioneer of free indirect style, where the narrative adopts the sentiments of the characters. Can anyone think of an earlier novelist who does this?

   Austen's characters are not just fully alive but also have afterlives (which might be why they have inspired so many sequels). Apparently she used to enjoy discussing this with her family. According to her nephew, James-Edward Austen-Leigh, his aunt told the family that Miss Steele never succeeded in catching the Doctor; that Kitty Bennett was satisfactorily married to a clergyman near Pemberley, while Mary obtained nothing higher than one of her Uncle Philips’s clerks, and was content to be a star in the society of Meryton. Mr Woodhouse would die two years after Emma’s marriage, allowing her to move to Donwell (and perhaps retrospectively justifying his hypochondria), while sensitive Jane Fairfax would apparently have nine or ten years of married life with Frank Churchill before her death.

By comparison almost all other writers waffle. She is, strangely, more modern and accessible than many later writers because she does not waste a word. Even Dickens and George Eliot are often verbose and pompous by comparison - their moralising shouts at the reader while hers whispers.

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you" - the great love declaration from Pride and Prejudice.







In Memory of Max Gallo, by Carol Drinkwater

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Max Gallo at a book  signing



I am going to begin with an apology. I am on a book tour for my new novel, THE LOST GIRL, running between cities, so please forgive the brevity of this month's post. I didn't want to miss it.
During this month of July, many in Britain and especially here on this wonderful History Girls website, have been celebrating Jane Austen. And with good reason.
I am going to celebrate another writer who died this month on 18th July, Max Gallo.

Max Gallo was a member of the Académie française. He was elected to the Academy in 2007. He was a historian turned novelist and in France was considered by many to be a father of history, a writer who, through the riches of his imagination, brought history to the general reader and made it accessible. His canon of works is impressive.

Gallo was born in Nice in 1932, the son of Italian immigrants. His early career was in journalism and during those years he was very active within the communist party.  Later in life, he was a socialist.

Possibly Gallo is most well known to the English reader for his quartet of historiographies that with great dexterity and imagination narrate the life and career of Napoléon. Gallo wrote in total over one hundred novels, biographies and historical studies. He died of Parkinson's Disease. Last year his wife, Marielle Gallet published a memoir, Bella Ciao, recounting their daily combat as a couple against the disease. 

In France he will be sorely missed. R.I.P Max Gallo



Max Gallo 2009

Now, back to my book tour. I will be in Chester, Liverpool, St Helen's and Manchester for the rest of this week. If you are in the vicinity, please come along. The schedule is on my website under Events.



Lady Maud Hoare and the silver trowel by Janie Hampton

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Lady Maud Hoare in 1941
Some years before she died, my mother gave me an old silver trowel as a birthday present. With its chunky, solid, ivory handle it has the weight and shape of a real builder’s trowel, and does the job of picking up cake and flans very well.
I recently received an email from the Royal Air Force College in Cranwell, Lincolnshire. They had found an empty presentation box with an indentation of a pointed trowel. Now they wanted to find the actual trowel that had been used to lay the foundation stone of their college in 1929. The box was duly sent to me, and sure enough, like Cinderella’s shoe, my trowel fitted. The only problem was, it had the wrong inscription. Made in Sheffield in 1926, the ornate inscription reads: 'Presented to the Lord Bishop of Chester, to commemorate the laying of the foundation stone of St Chad's Church, Blacon. June 11 1929.' (This Anglican bishop, Luke Paget, came from an unusual family: his father was Bishop of Oxford, one brother was the Archbishop of Central Africa and another an army general - their mother must have been very proud!)
RAF Cranwell College had been founded in 1920, and housed in barrack huts built during the First World War. In order to foster tradition and inspire the air cadets, they needed a permanent building. Sir Samuel Hoare (1880-1959), the Minister for Air since 1922, also understood that the RAF Cadet College was a temporary and precarious service and for the future defence of Britain, it was important that the RAF had equal standing with the other British armed forces, the navy and the army. Early in 1929, Sir Samuel formed a plot. He obtained the authority to commission architect’s plans for an RAF College and commissioned Sir James Grey West (1881 –1951), an eminent architect in the Office of Works. His first design was inspired by London’s elaborate Victorian-Gothic St Pancras Railway Station. This was rejected, possibly on grounds of taste. His second set of plans, based on the  Royal Hospital Chelsea designed by Christopher Wren in 1692, was accepted. But the Ministry of Air had no authority or budget from the government to construct the building, and a General Election was due in a matter of weeks. No expenditure had been authorised for anything other than the plans, and Sir Samuel could soon be out of office. There was no time to lose. Sir Samuel realised that whatever the outcome of the election, if the building of Cranwell College had started, whether the government was Conservative, Liberal or Labour, they were likely to finish it. The Marshal of the RAF, Lord Trenchard, (1873 –1956) and Sir Samuel quickly arranged for an official laying of the foundation stone before the dissolution of parliament. The night before, the RAF cadets held a clandestine mock ceremony, sharing caricature performances of the leading dignitaries.
The 29th April, 1929, was wet and windy but the ceremony went ahead. It began with a parade of the Cadet Wing, Airmen’s Wing and the College Band under the Assistant Commandant, Wing Commander Douglas Strathern Evill. Sir Samuel was received with the Air Salute, and after inspecting the Guard of Honour, joined the other guests on a wooden platform, erected in the field near the temporary huts. The VIPs included Lord and Lady Trenchard and Commandant of the RAF College Air Vice-Marshal Frederick Crosby Halahan, (1880 –1965), the architect Sir James Grey West and Sir Samuel’s wife, Lady Maud Hoare(1882–1962). Two years before she had been appointed Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire for flying 12,000 miles to inaugurate the London via Cairo to Delhi air service. The Times newspaper reported that ‘She is the first woman ever to fly so many miles. There had been snow, rain, fog, sandstorms, but not a spare part was needed for the air ship.’ 
Samuel Hoare VI as Honorary Elder Brother of Trinity House in 1956. By Aubrey Claud Davidson-Houston. 

With so little time to make arrangements, Sir Samuel probably borrowed a ceremonial trowel from his brother-in-law Luke Paget, the Bishop of Chester, who was about to perform a similar duty on a new church in his diocese. Or maybe Sir Samuel bought a new silver trowel, there was no time to inscribe it and he then passed it on to his brother in-law to lay the foundation stone of St Chad’s Church in Cheshire.
Sir Samuel handed the silver trowel to his wife Lady Maud who placed some cement onto the foundation. The first stone was lowered by a small crane into place. The Chaplain-in-Chief, the Venerable Robert Edward Vernon Hanson, (1866–1947) said a prayer and then Sir Samuel gave an address, before the parade marched past the saluting base to close the ceremony. 

This was an act of bluff to persuade the government to fund the building; and an act of faith that the next government, whoever they were, would finish the job now it had been started. On 30 May 1929, the Labour party, under Ramsay Macdonald, won the most parliamentary seats for the first time but failed to achieve an overall majority. However, the new ‘hung’ government accepted the RAF plan and proceeded with the building, which was finished in 1933. Sir Samuel then presented over 100 lime trees (Tilia x europaea) stating that an avenue was an ‘indispensable attribute to a great house’. And when tea was rationed during the Second World War, lime blossom made an acceptable alternative.
As a British M.P., in 1935 Sir Samuel piloted the India Independence Bill through the House of Commons and as Home Secretary, in 1938 introduced Kindertransport  to allow European Jewish children entry into Britain. A brilliant politician, he knew how to achieve his goals, even if it meant using his wife to wield his brother-in-law’s silver trowel. There might have been a different silver trowel, inscribed with the details, but no-one has found it. Unless a diary or note revealing any of this emerges, or the trowel appears one day on Antiques Roadshow or Cash in the Attic, we will never know.
Sir Samuel & Lady Maud, now Lord and Lady Templewood in 1957.

Why, you may ask, did my mother have this trowel? Well, the Bishop of Chester was her father-in-law; and Sir Samuel Hoare was both my step-great uncle and my grandmother’s third cousin so my third cousin-twice-removed. You can see the trowel on display at the RAF Cranwell Museum. http://www.aviationheritagelincolnshire.com/
RAF Cranwell College

Dunkirk by Julie Summers

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I went to see Dunkirk earlier this week. Not the town but the film of the same title written and directed by Christopher Nolan. It is a remarkable piece of art but is it a good film? And is it historically accurate? And does that in fact matter? I went with a completely open mind and was determined to leave my historian's hat firmly at the door. Trouble is, I went with an American friend and his English-born wife who had no idea about the history behind the evacuation at Dunkirk as the USA did not enter the war for another eighteen months.

So I gave them a very brief outline: as the Germans stormed across the Netherlands, Belgium and then parts of France hundreds of thousands of soldiers and their equipment were trapped in a small area of land around the French seaport of Dunkerque known of course by its British name Dunkirk. It is just 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) from the Belgium border and in May 1940 was teaming with troops from the British Expeditionary Force and the French, Belgian and Polish armies. Between 26 May and 4 June 338,226 soldiers were rescued from the harbour and beaches by a hastily assembled fleet that comprised over 800 boats, some of them trawlers, pleasure craft and barges. There was even a paddle steamer, HMS Daffodil, that had ferried evacuee children from Dagenham to Lowestoft in September 1939. Of those men rescued, over 120,000 were French. And the Little Boats, as they became known, came not only from across the Channel but further up the western coast of mainland Europe. Some forty Dutch vessels with naval crews rescued around 26,000 men.


Colour photograph of troops making their way to a pleasure boat at Dunkirk, May 1940

The evacuation of Dunkirk, known as Operation Dynamo, was deemed a miracle. For those caught up in the flight from the Germans it was a terrifying and humiliating ordeal. My grandfather, then Major Philip Toosey in the Territorial Army (4th West Lancs) was picked up on the night of 2 June 1940 in the last contingent of British troops to be rescued. The following evening he had dinner with his wife in Manchester. He wrote after the war: 'This, I think, was one of the most vivid contrasts of the whole war – the night before standing up to my neck in the sea at Dunkirk with not a great hope of ever getting home and the next night having a very good dinner in the Midland Hotel.' He had been picked up along with the remains of his regiment by a Thames barge which was holed below the waterline and constantly in need of baling out. The barge eventually drew alongside a larger vessel and the men were able to scramble up the nets on the side and to safety. As the last man clambered up the ladder on the side of the minesweeper the barge gurgled and sank.


Major Philip Toosey (seated far left) with the officers of the 4th West Lancs, 1939

In fact, of the 861 Allied ships that were involved in the Dunkirk evacuation, 243 sunk but not all by enemy action. Some sank, like the Thames barge that rescued my grandfather, too old and ill-adapted to the sea. Others were attacked from the air and by mines. It is estimated that the cost in human terms was some 3,500 British killed or drowned at sea or on the beaches with a further 1,000 lives lost as a result of air raids on Dunkirk. About 40,000 British troops did not make it back across the channel. They were taken prisoner by the Germans and spent the rest of the war in POW camps. It was by any measure an extraordinary episode in the early years of the war and one which captured the imagination of the British public back home. The spirit of Dunkirk became a by-word for resilience and bravery, only to be eclipsed a few months later by the Blitz spirit as Britain itself came under air attack.


Kenneth Branagh as Commander Bolton based on a real life hero, Commander James Campbell Clouston

Back to the film. It is impressive on so many levels. The score is fantastic. Hans Zimmer uses Edward Elgar's Nimrod to such powerful effect that when the audience see the Little Ships for the first time it is hard to hold back the tears. The conceit of the film merges three time frames: a week for the soldiers; a day for a captain of a pleasure craft and an hour for a Spitfire pilot. That too works well. The cast is outstanding, the photography magnificent, the scenes of drowning and death powerful. Yet something, for me, is missing. It is not the history. It is the humanity. This, after all, was a massive human triumph and tragedy in equal measure. For individual men it was a matter of life or death but somehow, I do not now how, that is missing from this epic film. And without the human story history films, however impressive, are just a visual spectacle.

The Women who Flew for Hitler by Clare Mulley

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Our guest for July is Clare Mulley used to be a History Girl herself.


Clare is an award-winning biographer, and regular contributor to historical and current affairs journals, TV and radio. Clare’s first book, The Woman Who Saved the Children (2009) won the Daily Mail Biographers' Club prize. The Spy Who Loved (2012) which looks at the remarkable life of Krystyna Skarbek, aka Christine Granville, Britain's first female special agent of the Second World War, has been optioned by Universal Studios. Clare's third book, The Women Who Flew for Hitler, a joint biography of two extraordinary women at the heart of the Third Reich, has just been published. As well as contributing to TV and radio for the BBC, BBC World, ITV, Channel 5 and the History Channel, Clare has given talks at most of the major British literary and history festivals, the National Army Museum, Special Forces Club and British Library.

This autumn she will repeat her lecture tour on the female agents of the Second World War in London, Paris and Valençay for Historical Trips. Clare reviews non-fiction for the Spectator and History Today, and is the chair of the judges for the Historical Writers Association 2017 non-fiction prize. Clare has previously worked for Save the Children and Sight Savers International, and is now a member of English Pen and Writers Against Racism. She lives in Essex with her husband, the artist Ian Wolter, their three daughters and a hairy lurcher.
www.claremulley.com

Welcome back Clare!




The Second World War, as Berthold von Stauffenberg has said, ‘was a time of contradictions… not every Party member was a Nazi, and not every non-Party member wasn’t.’

With my past biographies, The Woman Who Saved the Children, and The Spy Who Loved, I have been honoured to research, consider and write about heroines. There is a rich seam of untold stories here. So rich, in fact, that I have to wonder why Jane Austen will feature on not just the new £10 note this summer but also on a £2 coin. Much as I admire Austen, there are many more women whose huge contributions should also be remembered, such as the founder of Save the Children and pioneer of universal children’s rights, Eglantyne Jebb, or Krystyna Skarbek, aka Christine Granville, the first and longest-serving woman to work for Britain as a special agent in the Second World War. Both these women are to some degree controversial, yet both were indisputably heroines, fighting with courage and conviction on the right side of history.

My new book, The Women Who Flew for Hitler, has a very different but no less important subject. It looks at two women, anti-heroines, fighting with courage and conviction right at the heart of the Third Reich. This is not an attempt to consider ‘Good Nazis’ or ‘Bad Women’, but to look at two real women whose convictions, limited choices, determination and courage, blindness and fear, led them to choose very different paths during the war. Taken together, their dramatic stories raise important and fascinating questions about gender, technology and ideology; coercion, consent and the meaning or construct of truth.

Hanna Reitsch and Melitta von Stauffenberg were both brilliant pilots. Hanna with her dazzling smile, blonde curls and blue eyes, was an enthusiastic supporter of Hitler’s new regime, happily lending her image to a series of publicity articles and collectible cigarette cards. She also test-flew the most pioneering designs from the Nazi aircraft development programme; repeatedly flying into barrage balloon cables to test the design of wing blades, and eventually testing landings with the famous Me163 rocket plane, nearly killing herself and destroying her face in the process. Hitler awarded her the Iron Cross for her courage and commitment to duty, making her the first woman to receive the honour during the war.

Hanna Reitsch in the cockpit
The darker, more serious and seemingly shy Melitta had a more conflicted relationship with the regime. Although she would never accept many of the policies and practices of National Socialism, Melitta became one of the Nazis most senior aeronautical engineers and a lead Stuka dive-bomber test-pilot. She conducted an incredible over 2,000 test dives during the war, sometimes passing out with the G-force and only regaining consciousness just in time to pull out before impact.

Melitta knew she had to work at the limits of the possible; it was through becoming uniquely valuable that she hoped to help protect herself and her siblings – all of whom had been defined as Jewish ‘Mischling’ in 1937. By 1944 Melitta had been reclassified as ‘Equal to Aryan’, her family were safe, she too had received the Iron Cross, and she was heading up her own military flight institute; an unheard of position for a woman in Nazi Germany, let alone one with Jewish ancestry.

Melitta von Stauffenberg in the cockpit, photo c. Gerhard Bracke
Perhaps unsurprisingly, although Hanna and Melitta knew each other well they had a difficult relationship. As the tide of the war turned against Nazi Germany, both looked for radical ways to bring an earlier end to the conflict. Their beliefs, determination, courage and actions would put them on opposite sides of history. Years later, when Hanna was infamous, revered and abhorred in almost equal measure as she doggedly failed to condemn the regime over the thirty years after the war, Melitta simply faded from the record.

Uncovering the dramatic story of these two remarkable women has shed fascinating new light not just on their lives, but on life more broadly inside Germany under the Nazi regime, the limited options open to some, and the courage it took to face realities and act on truths under the perverting conditions of dictatorship, terror and war. The enormously powerful Nazi German armed forces led to the suffering and death of millions of people, Jews, Poles, Russians, Roma, British, French, American, those considered less able or less desirable, the list goes on. This book searches for the truth about two female pilots, asks how they came to be so skilled, why they were so successful, and how they felt about serving Hitler. This is a painful subject for the victims of Nazism, but I hope that the book will lead to a better understanding of the ways in which Hitler was able to harness the resources of his country for his terrible purposes. Seeking answers and understanding in such murky waters is fraught with difficulties, but the complexities and contradictions revealed are themselves very telling.





The Women Who Flew for Hitler was published by Macmillan in the UK and St Martins in the USA on 29 June 2017.







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Cabinet of Curiosities: Collins' Classics & Jane Austen by Charlotte Wightwick

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This month the History Girls have a Jane Austen theme so when it came to considering what to put into the Cabinet of Curiosities, it seemed only appropriate to bring my own little piece of Jane Austen with me – my copies of her novels.

I’m not one of those people who go on constantly about how wonderful printed books are over and above e-books: I love my Kindle, and with good reason (holidays, it turns out, are much more fun when you aren’t lugging 10 paperbacks around. Hating what you’re reading on a 4-hour train journey? Not a problem!)

However my Jane Austen novels are special to me.

They were given to me by my grandparents. I was a bookish teenager and had actually read Austen previously – my mum’s copies, when I was about 12 – and just hadn’t got her. Too much sitting around talking, not enough stuff happening (I know, I know – all I can say is that I was young.) So I said ‘thank you’ politely and wondered what on earth I was supposed to do with a set of books which a) we already had in the house and b) I knew I didn’t like (even though they were Classics).

Then came that adaptation in the mid-90s and I realised that, wet shirts aside, Jane Austen was funny. Really, really funny. And sad and clever and romantic and wonderfully, wonderfully human. So I was off, re-reading the lot within weeks and falling irrevocably in love with her characters, her plots and her writing. And I read my own copies. Here they are:



They’re unlike any books I owned at the time.

They were obviously old – not ancient, but definitely not new (I can’t recall where my grandparents said they’d got them, sadly.) The title page informs me that they are part of ‘Collins Library of Classics’, although they contain no date of printing. A quick online skim says that they were published between 1903 and 1945, probably in the 1930s.


For another thing, they were small, much smaller than a standard paperback (6 x 4 inches rather than approx. 7.5 x 5), red-bound with gold lettering on the spine. The pages were made of much thinner paper than I was used to handling and each included a picture opposite the frontispiece. And they had that proper old-book smell.



 So having started by saying I love my Kindle – and I do – it is also right that reading Jane Austen is still a very different experience for me when I pick up my little red copies. I do have e-copies (and audiobooks too) and they are wonderful novels in whatever format I choose. But when I read them in their physical form, they look, smell and feel as they did that (second) time I read Jane Austen: they are excitement, discovery and emotion made real. And that’s what books should do, surely?



July competition

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To win a copy of Clare Mulley's The Women who Flew for Hitler, just answer this question in the Comments below.


"How best should we tell stories from the 'wrong side' of history?"

Then send a copy of your answer to maryhoffman@maryhoffman.co.uk

Closing date 7th August

Our competitions are open to UK Followers only.

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A Tale of Two Teas

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 “The British really are the only people in the world who become genuinely enlivened when presented with a hot beverage and a small plain biscuit.” Bill Bryson

Do you know who first popularised tea-drinking in British society? No, not Queen Anne, though in my time every schoolchild knew:

Here thou, Great Anna! Whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take - and sometimes tea.
Alexander Pope. The Rape of the Lock III.7-8

(Giving one a fair idea of how the word was pronounced in the 18th century. The "here" was Hampton Court).

We were taught it as an example of the trope Zeugma; does anyone learn that sort of stuff today?

I digress. The first queen who was so fond of tea was Charles ll's unfortunate wife Catherine of Braganza, who had developed the habit of tea-drinking in her native Portugal.

Catherine's favourite hot beverage became popular in her heyday, half a century before Pope's little satire, and was soon being served in 17th century coffee houses. Some also sold loose leaf tea, thus enabling middle class people to hold tea-parties in their own homes. Crucially, it also meant that women, who did not frequent coffee houses, could enjoy a cup in private.

Tea was so expensive that it became a favourite item for smugglers. In 1785 the government slashed the duty on tea, thus undercutting the smugglers and wiping out their trade in the leaves. It was around this time that people started adding milk to their cups of tea, because quite a lot of it was adulterated with other leaves or already once-brewed leaves and probably did not taste very nice! Sugar had always been a popular addition but that was as expensive as tea itself.

“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.”
― C.S. Lewis


Tea was not popular with everyone. John Wesley inveighed against it in 1748. The  preacher and founder of the Methodist movement, argued for complete abstinence from tea, on the grounds that it gave rise to 'numberless disorders, particularly those of a nervous kind'. He cited the example of himself, claiming that tea drinking had caused in him a 'Paralytick disorder', which had cleared up since he began to abstain from the beverage. Wesley urged that the money previously spent by an individual on tea should instead be given to the poor, and as an alternative hot infusions could be made from English herbs including sage or mint.



But Dr Johnson was a chain-drinker of tea, his kettle scarcely having time to cool before being boiled again. 25 cups a day was nothing to him, especially in the company of his friend Mrs Thrale.

In the first half of the 19th century, tea was touted as the solution to the perceived excessive alcohol consumption of the working classes and so  was promoted by the Methodists as part of the Temperance movement. Later in the century there was a rise in tea-shops, alongside coffee houses, with the former now catering for less wealthy patrons.

This was also the era of the genteel, invariable female, tea-party, indoors or out.

After Kate Greenaway, Wikimedia Commons


“There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”
― Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady 


During WW2, tea was rationed to 2oz per person (over the age of five) per week and this didn't stop until 1952. (There were extra rations for those in the armed forces and certain occupations such as firefighting). After the end of tea-rationing, an American import changed the nature of British tea-making for ever. The humble tea-bag no accounts for 96% of all cups made in the UK.

“Tea is one of the main stays of civilization in this country.”
― George Orwell, Smothered Under Journalism: 1946  


To turn to my two teas: the first was on the Bluebell Railway in Sussex. It was husband's birthday present from last November, given by our middle daughter and son-in-law. So, long anticipated.


Many people feel the romance of steam trains and if you add to that the element of taking a meal - and that most traditional of meals, the afternoon tea - you have a delicious excitement about which not even Bill Bryson could could wonder. 

But here's a thing: I grew up next to a steam railway line, literally. I lived in a ground floor railwayman's flat in Clapham Junction and nothing but a high brick wall separated us from the track and the smuts of what my mother called the "stinking billies." They were the bane of her life, as she needed to hang washing out in our back yard.

So "romance" was not exactly in my mind.


What was so interesting was that the whole experience was presented as a bit of history. The platforms, signage, waiting room, even the loos were all lovingly preserved or reconcontructed to be exactly as they were in 1960 when the line reopened for private travel after it had been closed three years earlier (nothing to do with Dr Beeching). 

Now, depending on your age, you will regard that as an ancient date or only yesterday and we fell into the second category. We could both remember train carriages with wooden panelling on the inside and I could recall the windows that let down with a leather strap. As a railwayman's daughter, I travelled everywhere by train; we never had a car and our holidays and day trips were determined by their reachability from Clapham Junction, Waterloo or Victoria.

So we sat at our linen-clothed table for two in the dining car, watching the beautiful Sussex countryside out the window, expecting our tea and reminiscing about train journeys of our youth. Husband could recall silver coffee pots and as soon as he mentioned them, I could too.

For the young child having a birthday party with balloons and cake a few tables down from us it must have been a quite different experience.


It is a weird feeling to find your past firmly established as history and one I shan't forget. I'm sorry to say we didn't discuss Catherine of Braganza or John Wesley but Dr Johnson was definitely mentioned.

The route that the Bluebell railway takes, from Sheffield Park station, built for and named after the Earl of Sheffield, to acknowledge his financial contribution to its construction, to East Grinstead, is only eleven miles long. It was first built in 1877 so this bit of the line lasted 80 years. 


My second tea within the week took place at this establishment:



So no swaying movement to contend with but almost contemporary with the beginning of the Bluebell Railway.  The Randolph hotel in Oxford, familiar to millions of TV viewers round the world from the Inspector Morse series and its spin-offs, was opened in 1866, to accommodate a visit to the city by the then Prince and Princess of Wales. Its Victorian Gothic idiom, designed by William Wilkinson would have been familiar to those late 19th century rail travellers eleven years later.

I was there as a prize. I had offered "tea at the Randolph" and a discussion of any of my books to the highest bidder in the #authorsforgrenfell auction, which eventually raised nearly £200K for the Red Cross to use with survivors of the fire that will certainly remain a historical landmark of our time. 


It looked like this, apart from the prosecco (though I have to admit the free glass offered on the Bluebell railway was not refused).

Bridget Blankley, who won the 2016 Diversity Award for writing for children, and I had a very good afternoon talking about Amazing Grace and tucking into a tea of finger sandwiches, scones with cream and jam and so many cakes that doggy bags were required.

“Wouldn't it be dreadful to live in a country where they didn't have tea?”
― Noël Coward




Bluebell Railway
Red Cross Grenfell Tower appeal






 












Grave Matters, by Gillian Polack

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Australia can be besotted with tombstones. This expresses itself in interesting ways. When I was in my teens, my parents decided to join a project that mapped every single Jewish gravestone in the state of Victoria It was a perfectly acceptable hobby and they shared it with a few friends and with a few relatives. 

All the families involved had ancestors who’d lived in rural Victoria, because in the nineteenth century many Australian Jews did just that. The first Australian Governor-General, Isaac Isaacs was one: Australian, Jewish, and raised in a country town. 

This is why it was perfectly natural for me to discover a series of stones for the family Hamburger, caved by the family Macdonald when I visited Ballarat with my mother. We were researching the town because I thought that one day I might use the location for a novel. I’ve loved the town itself ever since I was a child, and was using my fiction as an excuse to visit it and to spend time with my mother. I wrote that novel some years later: it was, of course, The Wizardry of Jewish Women. Some aspects of the Ballarat cemetery in Wizardrywere invented, but not many and certainly not that tombstone. 


When I was a teenager, I thought this obsession with dead people was particular to my family and their friends. This meant I felt fated to be a historian or a museum curator, or something along those lines. I was teased about it a lot by the parents of my schoolfriends. They didn’t see that their fascination with graves was part of the reason I was so firmly attached to history. There was a group of adults who compared notes from their journeys into rural Victoria, and were rather proud of finding a rare grave the way a butterfly enthusiast would be proud of spotting a rare butterfly. My parents sent the butterfly enthusiasts to our front garden, where a small colony of Emperor Gum Moths lived, but it was graves they took notes on.

I had a poor sense of humour and sang a song I learned at primary school whenever my parents went on a tour of graves and left me behind. “He was buried on Sunday, deep deep down, “ it began. “Under the gravestone, deep deep down.” I still remember all the words.

When I was a late teenager I discovered that my family and their friends not working as a social group: they were part of a project run by a cousin. The idea was to find Jewish graves and to document writing on the headstones before the writing faded to illegibility was part of a wider fascination with graves. Other groups documented other graves or visited them and took care of them. More than a hobby, documenting gravesites and preserving them or information about them was a path into history and into belonging. Papers were even written about it. 
Graves are still important to Australia. One surviving from 1795 Sydney show how we value, what to us are old relics of our recent Europeanheritage

Every single First Fleeter (first UK settlement in Australia)’s death is recorded online and if their gravestone still exists, there are pictures. My sense of humour still creeps in, in an untimely and possibly disrespectful manner. One of the oldest surviving gravestones in Australia belongs to someone with the surname Graves.

The plane came down here.


Our war deaths are also chronicled carefully. I once took a set of pictures of the field in which my great-uncle’s plane came down in France (he didn’t die there – that’s another story) and a museum wanted copies. 

I visited Great-Uncle Max and his crew in 1995.



Just as my parents’ hunt for tombs was not just a hobby, graves are more than they seem for Australian culture. To the rest of the world we are a young nation. Almost without written history. The long Australian history, of the people who’ve lived on the continent for tens of thousands of years, doesn’t have carved gravestones to note death. 

Why are we so obsessed with tombstones? It’s not because we’re besotted with death. It’s because we’re besotted with history. Not just any history. Australians visit Europe a lot, The UK and Ireland in particular, but Europe too. We look for Europe’s past and say “We don’t have this.” We mourn for Jane Austen and Richard II. It’s personal.

Some years ago, I was talking to other Medievalists at an international conference. The general consensus around the circle was that if you answered “What do you do?” with “I’m a Medieval historian” you might not get the most appreciative response. Except for me, as the only Australian in the circle. I have been instantly engaged in long conversations by random people in Australia. We are passionate about history.

The same happens when I do research for my novels. If I mention the Australian history side, I’m told all about families and be asked to tell them about my first doctorate and… it’s an easy way to get a happy conversation going. When is say I write novels, most people will talk about how they write private journals, but historians are an instant focus for questions, just as graveyards here or overseas are important places to visit. 

It’s the history. We want it.

Life in History by Debra Daley

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So much of my own life is history now. I was listening to a podcast about Kunming, the capital of the Chinese province of Yunnan, which lies north of Vietnam and east of Myanmar. Two millennia ago, it was an important city on the southern Silk Road. The podcast was an account of how the city had changed rather violently in the last decade after the city’s planners instigated an epic modernisation programme of street-widening to make way for cars. New roading, I heard, has ploughed right through historic neighbourhoods. And the old quarters had been pulled down and replaced with apartment buildings and shopping centres. That means I wouldn’t recognise Kunming now. In 1984, my then husband and I spent several months travelling independently through China, returning from Sydney to our London flat. It was quite an undertaking in those days. There was little tourist infrastructure. And the week before we left on the trip I discovered that I was pregnant. But I was young and strong and I figured it would be fine – and so it proved.
An old quarter in Kunming.
We stayed in Kunming and its vicinity for about ten days. In 1984, the medieval town structure and rows of historical housing around the bird market were still extant and traffic consisted mostly of bicyclists. I have only a few photographs of my time there. It was before phone cameras, of course, but even so – when I was travelling I often didn't take many photographs. I told myself it was because I didn't want to look at people and things through a lens, that I wanted to Be Here Now, and that these experiences would live in my memory. But I did not realise when I was a young woman how undependable memory can be. Fortunately, I always kept a journal.
A Yi woman walking down Dongfeng Road
MONDAY 27 AUGUST, 1984. I walked down Dongfeng Road East this morning, following a Yi woman to see where she would go. As I made my way, I noticed a surprisingly large number of elderly women hobbling along on tiny feet encased in black bootees. Their feet resembled hooves and I supposed them to be among the last of China's foot-bound women. The Yi woman entered a dimly lit haberdashery and I did too. I tried on a black velvet beret that was too small and watched her while she bought a length of braid. There were bolts of fabric and racks of padded Mao jackets in the store and creased western-style suits. There was a poster on the wall of the ideal one-child family – a fat-cheeked boy perched between smiling parents. Next to the poster were diagrams of uteruses and a cross-section of a penis being vasectomied. The shopkeeper and the customers gawked at me as well they might. 
I was pregnant on this long trip through China and I did  a lot of sleeping.
TUESDAY 28 AUGUST, 1984. I slept late, until eight-thirty. The cleaner in the guesthouse was not pleased with this decadent behaviour and roused me so that she could get on with not cleaning the room. I woke with the desire to add some calcium to my diet. A German tourist had told me the day before of a shop that sold goat’s cheese. I walked along Dongfeng Road again, passing the tall hemp plants that seem to perform the role of municipal shrubbery here. I couldn’t find the shop, but I liked wandering around the old quarters with their two-storied red and green wooden buildings. Every so often a whitewashed alley intervened and led me down cool, quiet passageways that arrived at maze-like courtyards surrounding small houses.
The courtyard compounds are called yi ke yin, meaning 'seal'. When viewed
from above, the squared layout of these compounds brings to mind the
traditional rectangular seals used to stamp documents and paintings.   
Other doorways, back on the main street, offered glimpses of scary dentist’s rooms with foot-pedal drills and ancient equipment.
A dental surgery.
In the evening we were joined by C and V, two students from St Martins art school in London. We went out to a food stall in a marketplace we had spied nearby, and ordered a dish of diced potatoes, steamed green beans and chilli. It cost about eighty pence. As we were eating, at a trestle table under a droopy canvas awning, an elderly man approached us with one of the cooks from the stall at his back. He said in British-accented English, ‘The cooks want to know what you think of the food.’ We answered that it was delicious, which it was.
He pressed his hand to his chest. ‘It is Yunnan food. Will you order another dish?’ We agreed to that and presently a plate of sliced egg and tomato and sweetcorn arrived, accompanied by two small bowls, one of salt and the other of crushed, dried chilli. We asked the old man to sit down with us. He asked where we were from. He had a way of repeating our answers as if they were a delightful revelation.

‘Ah, you’re from London!’

He was a railroad engineer who had learned English at university in Shanghai. He had been assigned (he uttered this word with a raised eyebrow as if we might get its import) to Kunming in 1976. ‘The dialect here is particularly impenetrable,’ he said. We called for the bill and a cluster of people came forward to speak to the old man. He satisfied their curiosity about us and then said, ‘It is a pleasure to practise English. Usually I have to rely on Voice of America broadcasts.’ He waved a hand at the marketplace. ‘This has only been here for a month. They tore down the Working People’s Cultural Palace, which was erected during the Cultural Revolution. The Cultural Revolution is over, you know.’ He asked us if we would accompany him to an ice cream parlour. ‘There are young people there who would like to talk to you.’

Our entrance caused a stir at the ice cream parlour. A group of young people, about ten of them, shuffled towards our table. The engineer invited them to sit down. He turned to us and said, 'They are glad to have the opportunity to ask questions.' They wanted to know: where we were from, the average wage in Britain, our impression of China, an account of the weather in London, the incidence of typhoons in London, and the difference between public architecture in Britain and in China.

But the subject they were most interested in was our appearance. C wore over long and one short earring (it was the eighties!) and we were both dressed in black. Our interlocutors wondered if we women belonged to a sub-group of society – they had not seen other tourists dressed as we were – and if this was a particular London style? We replied that it was and other westerners might recognise us as belonging to a sub-group. I saw that our style intrigued this group just as we were fascinated by the appearance of minority tribespeople with their striking costumes. They saw us, in our fashionable outfits, as anthropological or sociological constructs. They wanted to know the significance of everything. What did C wear one long earring and one short earring? Did it matter? Why was I wearing a hat and C not? Did this denote that one of us was married? Why were we wearing black? What did it mean? When C explained that she tinkered with her look just to be different, to express her individuality, some of our questioners indicated that it was a lot of effort for such a trivial outcome.  

Did low-class people, they inquired, eat while they were drinking or was it only high-class people who took food with alcohol? They asked us if we ever drank champagne. When we said that we sometimes did, they sucked in their breaths and nodded knowingly.

And the end of the evening, everyone in the group thanked us. They wished us a long and happy life. One young man said he hoped that a typhoon would not strike London and laughed to indicate that he knew he was making a joke. 
It all seems so distant now. The ice cream parlour is gone without a doubt, the people scattered, the engineer long dead. But I like to remind myself as often as I can of these small human-to-human encounters. Those young workers in their Mao jackets and we tourists in our western costumes, somehow managing to become if only fleetingly a part of one another's history.  

  

 





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